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Chapter 13
Amelia swallowed against a dry throat, her eyes smarting. When Mrs. Halpert had joined them nearly a month ago, she hadn’t radiated good health, but there was some color in her cheeks. Now she was pale and drawn, her cheeks sunken and gaunt. Her delicate shoulders rested against a mound of pillows, her gaze flicking from Amelia to the doorway behind her.
“Can I sit with you a minute? I can read if you’d like, or I’d be happy to sit here in silence.” She should have brought her embroidery with her. With a little diligence, she could have finished the white-worked baby cap by the end of the evening.
Mrs. Halpert nodded, though it appeared to take great effort.
“Shall I fetch another book?” Amelia asked.
Mrs. Halpert’s gaze moved again to the space behind her and Amelia looked over her shoulder. Charles stood in the doorway, shock written on his features, his eyebrows lifted and mouth slightly agape. The dim corridor behind him proved the fading daylight. The sun had well and truly receded to the other side of the house. Surely the servants would be along shortly to light the wall sconces outside the bedchambers.
“Mrs. Halpert,” he breathed, stepping into the room. He cleared his throat and glanced between the woman in the bed and Amelia, uncertainty tugging at his blue eyes.
She needed to put his fears to rest as best she could, but she didn’t know how to manage it. The drastic change this woman had suffered in just the last week would be enough to jar anyone.
“We have two chairs here if you’d like to join us,” Amelia said, indicating the seats at Mrs. Halpert’s bedside. She waited for Charles to come forward, his hesitant steps slowly carrying him into the room and approaching the ill woman. Her round stomach bulged under the quilt, one thin, bony hand resting on top of it, the other strewn casually over the bedclothes.
“You’ve come,” Mrs. Halpert said quietly, a smile coloring her words. She gazed at Charles with appreciation as he sat in the chair nearest her bed.
“I would have come sooner, but I’ve been so distracted with the tenant houses and looking for the missing horses. Please forgive my negligence.” He shook his head, and guilt swept through Amelia.
Shewas the reason he hadn’t been nearby, and she saw it clearly, that she had earned the blame for his failure to visit. He did not care overly much for his horse—he had only been trying to locate Howard for her. She should have made a greater effort to convince him to let it be, to allow her to write to Mr. Boyle and put the matter in the hands of a man who likely did not have other, more important things to attend to.
And now, watching Charles gaze at Mrs. Halpert with compassion and heartbreak etched on his face, it hit her like a bolt of lightning in the chest. There was absolutely no mistaking the deep appreciation in Mrs. Halpert’s gaze, or the reciprocation in Charles’s.
This man had to care for this woman if the way he was looking at her was any clue, and Amelia was only getting in the way. She felt out of place, discomfort pressing upon her chest. She did not wish to be in the room while this couple grieved their situation, but she could not leave them be either.
Or, could she? Mrs. Halpert was a widow, much like Amelia, and Amelia had long ago ceased worrying about chaperones. But then again, Mrs. Halpert was abed, helpless and ill. This situation was different. She could not feel comfortable leaving them entirely alone, but that didn’t mean Amelia couldn’t give them a modicum of privacy.
“Would you mind terribly if I left you for a moment?” Amelia asked, gathering Charles’s attention. He startled as though he’d forgotten she was even there. Well, that was a lowering thought.
He looked back at Mrs. Halpert with uncertainty.
Amelia continued. “I need to write a letter before the daylight has well and truly left us. I shall just be at the desk beside the window.” She gestured to the other side of the room where a small writing table sat nestled between two tall windows.
“Of course,” he said. Lifting a hand to stall her, he stepped closer. “Your brother has gone to consult Mrs. Fowler. He shouldn’t be long.”
Nodding, Amelia stepped away. She might not put a lot of store in the Cunning Woman’s methods of finding a husband or discerning the future, but her skills as a midwife were surely as valid and real as the moon that was now slipping into view through the window behind a puff of dark clouds.
The soft murmuring of Charles’s voice nipped at her as she took a seat at the writing desk, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper. She prepared the pen and opened the inkpot. With a deep breath, Amelia began her letter.
* * *
Five Years Earlier
Widow’s weeds were meant to both deepen and lengthen one’s grief by their severe, consistent reminder of why one wore them. Or, so Amelia had decided. When she’d put off the stark black gowns after Henry’s death, she’d believed it would be for the last time. Had she known she would need the black clothing again—and so soon, at that—she wouldn’t have donated them to the servants.
But alas, one could not predict that they would be made a widow twice over before their first and twentieth birthday, could they? And she was not the only one to take note. After overhearing whispers referring to her as the Black Widow outside of church just last week, she’d been mightily tempted to return to church in any color but black. But Arthur deserved better than that, and her pride aside, she would complete a proper period of mourning for him.
A knock preceded her butler, and Amelia straightened in her chair when he announced Mr. Boyle. She hadn’t wanted to engage the services of a shabby character like Mr. Boyle, but with Arthur’s family doctor hesitant to explain the cause of Arthur’s death, what choice had she been given? Amelia deserved to know what had taken her husband from her so soon after their marriage.
Especially when the same gossiping biddies had been heard to warn a young, eligible gentleman away from Amelia and her deadly, cursed touch. As though she would actually consider marriage again.
Pressing aside the bitter reality that had become her life, Amelia allowed her good breeding to take control, fixing her posture and placing a guard over her bruised and tender heart. Whatever Mr. Boyle had to tell her, she could handle it.
The short man stepped around her butler, tapping his worn cap against his trousers as he sauntered inside and closed the door behind himself so they were alone.
She tried to send the man a confident look. She was not afraid of Mr. Boyle. Though he appeared to need a bath, he’d served in the army with her late husband, Arthur. And Arthur had trusted him, which was enough for her. However distastefully he smelled.
